Hallowed Ground
by Persephone Price
Summary: "He wonders if his feelings towards her are coincidental or by design, but quickly decides that this, like every other aspect in which their lives are entwined, must be by design." Nonlinear Ichabod/Abbie
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I love this show**

**Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow and its characters belong to Washington Irving and FOX.**

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It disturbs him deeply to know with such certainty that this is it, this is his life, now, and there is no chance that things will ever return to what they once were. They think he's a lunatic. Maybe he is, maybe he has gone mad, and maybe he does belong in an asylum. Sometimes he believes he must.

But _she_ doesn't think so, and so he must be sane.

He does not understand why he finds himself in this predicament and he hates this world. This country has grown to be foreign and everything he fought for has been turned to dust, long forgotten in the annals of time.

Nothing makes sense and he feels like a fool. His greatest pride, his cleverness, offers no real redemption here. These unnatural and metallic innovations put his wits to the test, endlessly causing him to fail and make a mockery of himself. He tries to adapt, he _tries_, but he feels like an ancient relic more suited for a museum than society. He longs desperately for the horse-drawn carriages, the candlelit nights, and the general sense of decency and politeness that men seem to have abandoned as they made their way out of the 18th century. Gone are the simpler times, but with them too the rituals and complexities of human interaction. Now, everyone is just so blunt.

But he finds solace in one thing: this world, this brave new world, allows her to flourish in ways his would not have. And that makes everything else worth it.

She is the strongest woman he has ever met. Stronger than Katrina, even, and stronger than himself. She manages to do what would have been strictly considered a man's job with far more competence than anyone else he has ever seen, which, given his experience in the Revolution, is high praise. In his time, her presence as she is today would have been unthinkable. He cringes at the mere contemplation of what would have become of her; she would have been burnt at the stake, like some sort of abomination.

But she is the opposite – she is perfection. She is the embodiment of both morality and fortitude, and its no wonder she was destined to walk this holy road with him.

However, she is not impervious to the emotional taxes their trials take; she looks terrified when she thinks he's not watching and, when she knows he is, she pretends that she doesn't struggle with the demons inside her every waking moment. She handles it all with remarkable grace. His affection for her is first borne out of sheer admiration.

She moves so quickly, with such determination, that she has no time to hold his hand through his difficult transition and he does not fault her. When he wakes violently in the night, tormented by nightmares of her death, his own death, and all the deaths to come, he finds comfort in the notes she scatters around his room. They instruct him, they guide him through this bizarre place, even if she is not there to do it in person. He knows she has nightmares, too, and he wishes he could fight them off. But she does not need him as much as he needs her.

The darkness is always there, sometimes in the periphery and sometimes right in front of them. It tears its way into their lives, growing closer by the second. They are the only ones who can see it. It threatens to consume them, but together they have prevailed thus far. They may be suffocating, choking under the weight of their apocalyptic burden, but at least they are not alone. Why they were entrusted with such a daunting task, he does not know.

But he thanks the god he now knows must be watching them for blessing him with this fate, with her. They would have been separated by centuries, but this fortuitous link has brought them together. It is nothing short of providential and it makes him trust that their goal is not utterly futile.

It is about one year into their auspicious journey when he thinks he loves her, two when he knows he must. But she is impossible to read and, though he is the one who knows her best, he fears she will always be an enigma. He thinks, sometimes, that she is an enigma even to herself. He wonders if his feelings towards her are coincidental or by design, but quickly decides that this, like every other aspect in which their lives are entwined, must be by design.

And it is this sacred knowledge that gives him the courage to confess to her the inner workings of his heart.

In the years leading up to this profession, however, he is plagued by guilt. It gnaws at his insides and pierces him right in the chest. He shouldn't love her. He is a married man, he is married to Katrina. Any romance between him and Abbie will only serve to further complicate an already complicated situation. Plus, _he shouldn't love her_.

How can he forget Katrina, his _wife_? At one time, he had loved her dearly. He had believed them to be soul mates and would have sacrificed anything on earth for her. But death and time has pulled them away from each other, and his heart is now firmly in the clutches of another, for whom the term 'soul mate' seems infinitely more apt. Is it wrong to break the sacred vow of matrimony?

Of course it is. That was why it is referred to as a 'sacred vow.' But death had already broken it, had it not? It nags him that perhaps this is just a technicality. Katrina still comes to him in his dreams, sometimes. She tells him she pities him, and that if Abbie is his only path to happiness before the End of Days he ought to pursue her. He believes this, that she wants the best for him, but he does not believe that it doesn't hurt her. An odd mixture of betrayal and longing shines in her jade-colored eyes when she looks at him in this misty dream world.

This wretched and crippling shame weighs on his conscience, and it has thwarted the intensification of his feelings for Abbie. But now, after these two years, his will has reached its breaking point. Every time he sees her, he fears he will lose his grip on his decorum. The proclamation is inevitable at this point and he must resolve to move past his misgivings.

And true enough, he is flooded with doubts and fears. But he has risked death for her innumerable times before; he would risk it again, should God smite him where he stood for his impertinence. At least he would take comfort in knowing he had given himself the opportunity for eternal happiness. How can something so pure be immoral? He has faith that it is not.

"Miss Mills?" Even after all these years, he rarely uses her first name. She's told him many times that he should loosen up, that he doesn't have to be so proper all the time, but he still cannot shed the Puritan manners that have so firmly woven themselves into the very fabric of his being.

"Yeah?" She barely looks up, like she doesn't have time for him. They are in the old library, their own private sanctuary, and somehow the timing seems ideal. This library has become hallowed ground for them – here, they are a little stronger, a little bolder. He dare not recall how many stolen glances and thrilling, accidental touches have transpired in this dimly lit room for fear of going red. It is only in this setting, which reminds him a bit of home, that he is able to push the boundaries of his propriety.

"Abbie." Her name is musical on his tongue and it sends shivers through her rigid spine, though she would never admit it. _Damn that accent_, she curses.

She stares at him dead in the eyes and sees him better than anyone else. "Yes?"

He knows from television, Abbie's anecdotes, and his own observations that the technicalities of courtship in this era have changed dramatically. His desperation has gotten the better of him, though, and he chooses – for perhaps the first time – to forsake his archaic sense of etiquette in favor of a more modern approach.

So, he doesn't say anything more – he merely pulls her face to his and kisses her directly on the mouth. This is not as simple as a task as it may seem, given their rather excessive height difference. One foot really is quite a significant measurement.

He hadn't thought it would take so little for her militant exterior to crumble, but the mercifully quick realization that his feelings are reciprocated is nothing short of divine. She kisses him back with a tenacity he has never known before, though he wouldn't have expected anything less. She does not seem surprised by his forwardness and is instead a peculiar tangle of melancholy, anger, and lust as she claws brazenly at his ratty blue coat. This coat, in many ways, is a reflection of him: damaged and grossly outdated, but still functional.

"Crane," she growls as she pulls back. Her hands are still on his shoulders and he's not sure if she's using them to steady him or herself.

"Yes?" he replies innocently enough. He tries to be cheeky, but somehow his hooded gray eyes don't comply with the rest of his demeanor.

She breaks into a grin and chastises, "What took you so long?" And then she kisses him again.

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**Author's Note: This is a one-shot, but I might add more drabbles as the season progresses. Let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I can't even help it anymore! Writing them is too fun. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter!**

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It's not that she didn't think this would ever happen…

Okay, so maybe it is. But who could blame her? Sure, everyone (and by 'everyone,' she really meant Cosmo) said men and women could never just be friends. She vaguely remembered prim, blonde girls saying this in high school. But she had ignored them, because it was stupid and they were stupid. Of _course_ men and women could be friends – her life was living proof of that. The toughness she'd developed in the foster-care system had made her get along better with guys, and even as a child she'd always been a tomboy.

But then she thought about it, really _thought_.

She had an ex at the station, and she'd had a romantic partner in crime in the days before she'd joined the force. She'd always been one of the guys because she'd always been _dating_ one of them.

But still, Ichabod's nonverbal confession of his feelings for her came as an absolute astonishment.

It's not that she didn't love him…

She did. More than she was willing to admit and so much so that it scared her. She just hadn't thought that Mr. I-Can't-Look-At-You-In-A-Bathrobe-Even-Though-I-Sa w-You-In-Your-Underwear-That-One-Time-And-I'd-Real ly-Very-Much-Like-To-Forget-That could harbor any feelings other than friendship for her. Every touch (and there had been many), every accidental brush of hands (again, many) had seemed strictly platonic.

Or at least she'd forced herself to see it that way, because he was _married_ and it hurt too much to entertain the hope that the two of them could be something more. She had tried desperately not to love him and, when it became inescapable, she told herself her love for him was unrequited.

And she hated that she loved him, she did. He was an absurdity. He could be incredibly naïve about this era and everything he knew she'd taught him. How, in the name of all that was holy, had she allowed herself to fall for a lanky British aristocrat from the 1700s? He wasn't even her type! He was gangly and scruffy and altogether too uptight. She liked sturdy, military men – like Luke. She supposed, Ichabod was a military man, too, but still... 'Ridiculous' didn't seem to be a strong enough word to describe her circumstances.

She came to the conclusion that it didn't really matter _how_ her feelings for him had developed, it just mattered that they had. However, she was still having trouble registering the fact that her affection for him was reciprocated.

When he grabbed her and kissed without any sort of long-winded preamble, she was positively stunned.

But Mr. Crane was a man of many words, and so it came as no surprise that he expressed a burning need to profess his most sincere thoughts in the aftermath.

"Miss Mills, I do hope you'll forgive my forwardness," he pleaded ruefully. It seemed almost ridiculous, as she was currently pulling down her shirt and combing a hand through her hair after a heated make-out session. He was no less ruffled, and his normally-thin lips were perceptibly swollen beneath his beard.

"Crane, do you really think I would have allowed that if it wasn't what I wanted?" she replied with a quirk of her eyebrow.

"No, of course not," he continued fluidly, "but that was really quite impertinent of me – I should not have allowed myself to get so carried away. You are a lady, and as such you deserve to be… to be courted with the utmost respect. I cannot help but fear that I did not comport myself in the most gentlemanly of fashions – I did not exercise enough restraint…"

"Number one, you can relax with the whole chivalry thing – there is no _'courting' _going on here," she scoffed, cutting him off. She knew him well enough to know when he was going to begin rambling, and now was definitely one of those times. "Number two, I'd say you exercised _too_ _much_ restraint. It was just a kiss."

Ichabod's eyes widened to saucers. "Just a kiss?" he sputtered, almost insulted. "I assure you, then, you and I do not share the same definition of what a 'kiss' entails."

"You've been here for years, Ichabod, you've seen enough to know how things work nowadays," she reminded him. At times like this, she truly believed he feigned ignorance. "Remember when I explained to you what a one-night stand is? Now _that _might have been a little bit impertinent for right now."

He blushed a deep red as he tried very desperately to ignore the 'right now' clause of her statement and everything else that had preceded it. Instead, he conceded, "I do recall that rather troubling lesson in modern amorous practices, yes. But I still must insist that my forwardness today was in no way a reflection of my opinion of you – if I might phrase it so indelicately, I do not believe that you are the type of woman who engages in these 'one-night stands,' and I hope that you did not think I presumed to take advantage."

Abbie was able to fill in the blanks and translate his speech into something a bit more manageable – he didn't think she was a harlot, and he hadn't kissed her because he wanted to get in her pants. Duly noted.

"We've known each other for a long time," she said in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. "I don't think what you did was forward in the least, and I'm very glad you did it." As if to punctuate her statement, she took a step closer and placed her hand on his chest. Now divested of his beloved navy coat, he looked oddly naked.

Ichabod peered down his nose at her – he was so tall (and she swore his dated boots gave him an extra two inches _at least_)that when he gazed at her with his head held straight, his eyes nearly closed. A smirk playing at his lips, he baited, "Miss Mills, I have just finished expressing my apologies, and now you seek to tempt me again? Do you enjoy testing the boundaries of my willpower?"

"I might," she teased flirtatiously, looking up at him. She had the sinking feeling that, if they continued down this road, they would end up in one of two places: in bed or in separate, ice-cold showers. It all depended on how well she could corrupt Crane's delicate sensibilities.

His hands traveled down her slim waist and came to rest at the sharp curve of her lower back. _Now_ he was getting the gist of things, but she knew him well and she doubted her ability to persuade him to do more than kiss her just yet. Ah well. She'd been waiting over a year, and she figured she could afford to wait a few more weeks.

"I must warn you, I have been told my self-control is exemplary," he insisted.

She tilted her chin up, raised herself on her toes, and still could not reach his mouth. "You know me, Crane – I'm never one to back down from a challenge."

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**Author's Note: Let me know what you think! I loved the episode tonight. ALSO, this is random but interesting - the mother of the real Ichabod Crane, who was a general, was named Abigail Miller. I just think that's kind of a big coincidence.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to all the readers and reviewers. I really appreciate the feedback so much and I'm glad people seem to be enjoying these!**

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There are good days and bad days.

Lately, though, it seems like there are mostly bad days.

After _particularly_ bad days, Ichabod will sometimes linger in her house until he thinks she has recovered from whatever trauma they have faced together. He doesn't say anything about it, he doesn't tell her why he stays. He doesn't need to, because she is quite capable of figuring it out. He worries about her - he worries about her mental state, worries about her sanity. She worries about it, too. But, while she certainly doesn't _need_ him to protect her, she doesn't mind that he tries.

Or at least, she tells herself she doesn't need him to protect her.

She thinks maybe she's been lying to herself.

He's been lingering longer and longer.

She thinks maybe she needs him more than she knew.

Death encroaches on all sides. It's like a flood, drowning them in its dark waters. It's like a smoke, choking them, burning their lungs, burning them from the inside out. Sometimes, on days like today, she thinks it will finally catch them both. They won't always make it out unscathed, they can't. Sometimes, she thinks it's all just a waiting game. They scurry around in the ashes of the world, like rats waiting to die. They take orders from a two-thousand-year old book. There is no proof that they will survive this. She lives in the constant terror that _today will be the day_ death finally takes them.

Or worse, only one of them. Only him.

Ichabod comforts her mainly through his presence. He meanders around her empty house, picking up items and asking what they are wholly for the sake of creating a diversion. She doesn't mind this game.

He makes a point of not touching her unless it is absolutely necessary. At the end of the missions, in the heat of the moment, they will occasionally find themselves in unwitting embraces. When they realize what they are doing they jump apart, not willing to register why they cling to each other so.

When they are alone and it is quiet like this, he keeps a healthy distance; when they are alone and she looks at him like this, he keeps a healthy distance.

But tonight is different, different even than all the horrible ones that preceded it.

Jenny is dead.

And he knows he cannot leave.

Abbie sits on the sofa quietly, watching the paint on her wall. This is the calm before the storm and he has seen it before, two centuries ago. Nearly everything is different now, but human emotion remains remarkably unchanged. He sits beside her and second-guesses himself about six times before tentatively placing his arm around her narrow shoulders. He wonders how something so tiny can be so strong.

It's as if his touch breaks her out of a trance, and almost immediately tears begin to roll down her cheeks. "Crane," she sniffs, falling against his chest.

He is extraordinarily hesitant, but after some consideration he wraps both arms around her and just holds her. "I am very sorry, Lieutenant." He pronounces it 'leftenant,' as he always does, and it's a comfort because it's one of his unique quirks. And he is, he is sorry. He fights against his will at every moment, fights against the urge to comfort her as he knows he should. He loves her even though he cannot.

"She was the only one I had left," she sobs. _He_ is the only one she has left. The people she loves drop off the planet like dominoes; first her father, then her mother, then Corbin, and now Jenny. Jenny died in a blaze of glory, just how she would have wanted it. She died fighting for the cause she had dedicated her life to, she died a hero's death and saved them all. But she still died.

Abbie is tough, but she can't afford to lose anyone else. He truly is the only one who remains and the possibility of losing him haunts her.

Ichabod says nothing because there is nothing to say. So he just stays there and strokes her hair; it is the most he can do for her and it is precisely what she needs from him, even if neither of them knows it.

She cries herself to sleep against his shoulder. It is an ordeal for him to disentangle himself from her grip, but he manages it eventually. There is no way for him to get home tonight and he knows he will find himself camping out on her sofa, as he has done several times before.

But first, he has to move her.

He cradles her in his arms, careful not to jostle her awake as he lifts her from her resting place. With impossible gracefulness, he carries her to her room and lays her on her bed without a sound. He examines her for a moment, remorsefully. As cliched as he knows it is, he wishes it were him who was suffering, wishes he could take her pain away. She does not deserve this. He had thought they were fated, but maybe they are just cursed. As he begins to tiptoe back out to the living room, he hears a rustle behind him.

"Crane?"

He turns around and Abbie squints her swollen eyes against the light from the doorway to look at him.

"Don't leave," she murmurs almost inaudibly.

"I'm not," he assures her, "I'll be just out here, on the sofa."

"No, stay with me."

His features contort into a pained expression – he cannot stay, though he would like to. "Abigail," he says as tenderly as he can, "it would be improper of me…"

She shakes her head, tears gathering again. "It's not, it's not improper. I..." There is a heavy pause as she wets her lips. "I need you. I need someone here. I need to know that not everyone will disappear."

He has never seen his resilient Abbie this broken, and so he knows he cannot refuse. He cautiously treads over to her bed and sits as far from her as possible. Instantly, though, his efforts are rebuked and he finds himself with Abbie's arms firmly clasped around his waist. It's clear, he thinks, they will inevitably drift to sleep like this.

He will ignore the impropriety of it, just this once.

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**Author's Note: Let me know what you think! Also, I'm considering doing an M rated one-shot... which I have never done before. What do you guys think? Should I do it? **

**Also, sorry for the angst lol. I posted another story called Hipsters if you want something more lighthearted! Sorry for being all over the place and posting different things all the time, but I want to keep a certain tone and focus in this collection of one-shots that I don't think the other stories fit. So yeah. Sorry for rambling! Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to the reviewers, I'm so lucky to have you guys! This chapter isn't really related to the others but oh well. I hope you guys like it all the same!**

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For some reason, it had never dawned on him that the both of them might not make it out of these seven years of trials and tribulations alive.

It was foolish, he knew, because they put their lives in peril every single day. But even if one of them were to die, he thought it would certainly be him.

Because he would die to ensure that she did not. Without hesitation.

So, when he saw her there, lying in a pool of her own blood on the church floor, it seemed surreal – more surreal than anything else they had encountered, more surreal than the flock of demons that were spilling forth from another, evil realm.

Because this couldn't happen, Abbie _couldn't_ die. It wasn't part of the plan.

He rushes to her and remembers none of it, not even a fleeting moment between when he sees her and when he is kneeling at her side, shaking and unsure of himself.

He hasn't the faintest clue what to do. Her injuries look dire and blood pours from a wound on her stomach, unseen because it is obscured by the very blood that flows from it. He has been through war, he has seen death and atrocities even worse than death, but he is not prepared for this.

They are the Witnesses, the _two_ Witnesses. There cannot only be one.

"What should I do?" he asks quietly, to no one in particular.

"I'm dying," she tells him matter-of-factly as hell unfolds around them.

"No, you mustn't say that." And his voice is cracking and his heart is breaking. "I am lost here without you." And it's utterly true. He is nothing without her, just a man, isolated, with a purpose and no means. If she leaves him, his solitude will be unbearable.

Abbie doesn't want to die, and she hasn't resigned herself to it yet. But she also knows that no ambulance will find them in this deserted church in the woods outside the town, let alone in time to save her.

"Try asking the big guy," she suggests, flitting her eyes towards the decrepit crucifix behind the altar. The demons are gone, now, and they have left in their wake a smoldering pentagram and a hollow silence. The church is cold as death, though the fire around them still burns. "He helped me once with you." She says this offhandedly, but she has never admitted it to him before.

Ichabod wets his lips and looks upwards, all the while his hands grip Abbie's as if _he_ were the one dying. "Please, Father," he begs, "Please do not take her. We have yet to accomplish what you have tasked us with, and..." He trails off and looks down at her again, feeling mildly ridiculous and entirely desperate. He wills himself not to allow any tears to fall. "_Please_," he croaks.

His prayers do not lack sincerity or rationale, and so he is understandably inconsolable and frustrated when he is met with no sign that his partner is not going to meet her untimely demise. And when Abbie's eyelids flutter shut, his composure snaps. "_No!_" he shouts at the ceiling. "You cannot do this, you _cannot_!"

He realizes that he sounds like a petulant child, but he doesn't care. Ichabod had never dwelled much on the concept of a god before now. Of course, he was a religious man in the sense that he believed in one (and how could he not, given his circumstances?), but he had never truly contemplated what _sort_ of god he believed in. He is now wholly convinced that it is a cruel one, for what sort of miserable deity would unite two people over the span of centuries, only to rip them apart?

They were promised seven years together.

It had not been seven years.

He feels a deep sense of betrayal as Abbie's pulse grows fainter and fainter, and suddenly it stops and he feels nothing at all.

There's a moment when his mind is blank, when he cannot register what has happened. Numbness gives way to agony, agony so poignant that he thinks he too might perish.

But luckily, magically, it's only a moment – then, her eyes open. She is still covered in blood, absolutely drenched in it, but her eyes do not hold the dullness of someone on the verge of death.

"Abigail," is his strangled cry of joy. He kisses her forehead out of sheer ecstasy and casts a knowing, thankful glance to the heavens. He has never felt such overwhelming relief; it is as though he has been brought back to life with her.

"I was gone for a minute there," she says wryly.

"I know." _Oh_ he knows. He will never forget that new, awful sort of pain, but he must try. He must repress the memory, or else it will haunt him forever. "Are you well enough to stand?"

"Yeah, I feel fine."

Without further ado, he helps her to her feet and soon they are facing one another, mere inches apart. Something has changed between them, something almost imperceptible but with a certain hidden gravity to it. They do not know what to do, and Abbie can see the extent to which he cares for her written on his face.

She brings her hand to rest at his jawline and, when he does not shirk away, she uses her thumb to trace the salty trail left by a single tear. They seem reach an unspoken understanding, especially as his hands find themselves at her hips.

But when she presses her lips to his so softly they were hardly touching, he pulls away. The cold air shows the misty puff of his breath, and in it the words "_We mustn't_" linger.

Suddenly she is not so sure if the wound in her stomach has actually healed and her mind is reeling, spiraling, berating herself for her stupidity.

_What did you think would happen?_

He has a wife.

She removes her hand like he has scalded her and staggers backwards, away from him, wearing an emotionless expression. His features, on the other hand, are twisted into a grimace, as if he is waging a war within himself but is too cowardly to fight it.

He calls her name after her.

But she is leaving – she has to. She was wrong. She had misread the situation, the look in his eyes. She is affected so profoundly that she swears she will never touch him again, never convince herself that all the meaningful glances actually _mean _something.

When her foster parents had decided she "wasn't a good fit," she vowed that she would never experience that type of potent, devastating rejection again. But she had been wrong.

And so, she has to leave.

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**Author's Note: I'm still working on that rated M chapter lol... Let me know what you guys think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to all the lovely reviewers! This sad 3-week hiatus is dragging on, but hopefully this chapter will help a bit. It's really long! And the first part is a scene that I think they should have included in the show ;)**

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There were certain aspects of modern society that Crane didn't think he would ever quite grow accustomed to.

One of said aspects was the current mode of fashion, particularly for females; modesty, it seemed, was a concept that had long since withered away, known now only to women over the age of sixty – and even then, only sometimes.

When he and Abbie had been gearing up to fight the dream monster, the Native American (the _correct_ term for the race, she had insisted) shaman had told her that the scorpion venom needed to be injected into her abdomen. He hadn't really had a chance to work through what this would actually entail before she unabashedly began stripping.

Well, maybe stripping wasn't the correct terminology because only one article of clothing was removed. But still.

Frantically shielding his eyes with his hand, he stammered, "Wha – by God, what on earth are you doing?"

"Relax," she told him with a roll of her eyes. "It's called a sports bra."

Despite the shocking nonchalance that saturated her tone, however, he was wholly unable to bring himself to look at her. Instead, he glared hard at the shaman, whose gaze walked a dangerous line between unfazed and appreciative.

"Watch your wandering eyes, good sir," a very flustered Ichabod warned in a low tone, pointing an accusatory finger at the other man.

The shaman laughed heartily and said, "Jesus, you'd think he's never seen a woman before."

"I assure you I have," Crane managed vehemently, not fond of having his masculinity called into question, "but Miss Mills and I are _colleagues_!"

Abbie made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. "Cool it, Crane, it's not a big deal."

"Lieutenant, I cannot even begin to comprehend why you feel so at ease allowing two men – one of whom you barely know, might I add – to look upon you in such a compromised state," he paused, his hand still acting as a feeble barrier between him and the sight of her, before continuing, "but I cannot, in good conscience, allow myself to see you like this."

Abbie was growing impatient; their time was limited, and they couldn't dwell on this conversation any longer. "Blah, blah, blah," she mimicked with an exaggerated English accent, "'in _my _day such things were reserved solely for the marriage bed'! Get over it."

Ichabod looked as if he was about to respond with keen affirmation, but before he could she grabbed his hand and wrenched it away. When he still kept is head and eyes turned away from her, she grabbed his chin and forced it straight, so that looking at her was unavoidable.

Against his will, his eyes flitted quickly all the way from her toes to her face; he cursed his eidetic memory and he averted his gaze as fast as he could, but it was too late. The image was burned in his brain and his cheeks had already gone scarlet.

Her body was beautiful, with curves that rivaled even the most masterful depictions of Venus he had seen when he had travelled to Florence in his youth. But that was beside the point.

When he didn't say anything for a long while, Abbie, with a smirk tugging at her lips, felt obligated to ask, "You all right?"

"Yes, yes, I am fine," he replied a little too hastily. His eyes snapped to meet hers (and he was trying very desperately to keep them fixed on her face and _only_ her face) and he gave her a weak, unconvincing smile.

They hadn't spoken of the incident since.

.

Things grew even more indecorous throughout Sleepy Hollow when night fell.

Ichabod was no stranger to the concept of eveningwear. True enough, he had attended many a ball as a young bachelor and had observed firsthand beautiful gowns made from the finest silks and lace. But that was just it – they were _gowns_. Now, he saw what Abbie referred to as "dresses" which were really, in his time, garments that would not even pass as lingerie. Every Friday and Saturday evening, when they returned from the station or wherever else they'd spent the day, his eyes were assailed by droves of women displaying vast stretches of bare skin. And if this visual barrage alone wasn't enough, their faces wore masks of color as they stalked the streets like wanton china dolls.

Initially, he had assumed that these were ladies of the night. But no, Abbie assured him, these were just regular women who sought to escape the monotony of their everyday lives.

"_You _do not ever parade around clad in such salacious attire, do you?" he demanded as they drove by a 'nightclub' in her police cruiser. His tone sounded strange even to himself, but he didn't dwell on it.

Abbie snorted and replied, "Are you kidding?"

After examining her facial features for signs of sarcasm, Ichabod reluctantly took this response as a 'no.' He was immensely comforted by this knowledge.

"You know," she mused, "I should take you to a club one of these days."

Ichabod blanched because she did not appear to be suggesting this in jest. "Certainly not," he managed.

"C'mon, it'd be fun," she teased.

"Fun?" he scoffed, "I am quite certain I will find nothing even remotely entertaining about the experience."

"Think of it as a social experiment," she tried. "It will be a great way for you to see for yourself how _courting practices_ in this era have changed."

"I think that contraption that everyone seems so transfixed by – what did you call it? Oh yes, the _television_ – has informed me perfectly well, thank you."

"You're not even the least bit curious?"

"There is no need for curiosity – I assure you, I have a very good idea of what I am to encounter, should I step foot in such an establishment."

"A club," she corrected.

"A _club_," he agreed, repeating the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth.

"We could go tomorrow night," she pressed on.

"I thought you said that you do not partake in such reprehensible activities," he stated, turning the tables.

"I said I don't _dress _like that, not that I don't 'partake.' I used to go to the club occasionally, when I was younger."

He cast her a judgmental look out of the corner of his eye, but remained silent.

"So, we're going tomorrow," she asserted.

"I don't understand why you're so insistent."

"Because, like I said, it'll be _fun_."

Ichabod very seriously doubted it.

.

When Abbie had said going to the club would be fun, she had meant that it would be fun for _her_. For Ichabod – well, she certainly expected it would be a learning experience. And a hilarious one, at that.

She picked him up at Corbin's cabin, already dressed in her favorite (and only) LBD. She had no doubt that he would find her current outfit shocking, but not nearly so much as the other women they had seen prowling the streets outside the club. She was actually quiet eager to see his scandalized reaction – it never got old.

And the dress was indeed a great deviation from what he had normally seen her wearing; it ended at about mid-thigh and had cap-sleeves with a revealing neckline. She'd made the conscious decision to pair it with silver pumps, so that Ichabod would tower over her to slightly less of an extent.

When he opened the door, his eyes only bugged out of his head for a moment. He regained his composure with commendable speed, not wanted to give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him. After their last conversation on the matter, Ichabod had quickly realized that Abbie delighted in his reactions to modernity, especially in regard to things of such a delicate nature.

"You look… well," he was able to muster. He, on the other hand, looked exactly as he always did.

Ichabod's voice, thankfully, did not betray his true feelings. While he did not approve of the attire, he could not deny that it held a certain… allure. He was loath to admit it, but he had always found Abigail attractive. However, seeing her in this form-fitting dress that accentuated her bosom was quite a lot to take in at once. It wasn't even so much the neckline that drew his attention, as the corsets from his day produced very much the same effect – no, it was the hem. He came from a time when women wouldn't dare show even their ankles, and if the sight of her in trousers had been surprising, this was something else entirely. He could see… nearly everything. Her legs were smooth (did women _shave_ their legs in this day and age? It seemed that they must) and unbelievably shapely, a result of the inordinate amount of running the two of them did on a daily basis.

She did not thank him for his compliment because she didn't want to acknowledge A) that he could have an opinion on the way she looked or B) the manner in which his eyes travelled up and down her form. Instead, she very nearly scoffed, "You're going in that?"

"Is this not suitable?" He quirked an eyebrow mischievously, knowing full well that his garb was not 'suitable.'

"Well, it's not as if you have anything else," she sighed in resignation. She'd been putting it off, but she knew that she really did have to take him shopping for new clothes one of these days. He couldn't keep hand-washing his 18th century rags in the bathtub.

"We'd better get going," she added. There was only one club in Sleepy Hollow, so she knew it would be crowded.

They hopped in the car and she parallel parked along the street, all the while Ichabod watched the line forming outside their destination with undisguised horror. Another consequence of _Realm_ being the only club in Sleepy Hollow was that it attracted an enormous array of clientele. Abbie, in her late twenties, was still young, and she presumed her out-of-time compatriot was about the same age. They were slightly older than the target demographic, but not so much so that they would stick out – well, Ichabod would stick out, but that was for another reason entirely.

She wasn't quite sure how people would receive him once they got inside. It was a hit or miss, really. She would be lying if she said he wasn't devastatingly handsome. His lean but muscular build made him seem even taller than he actually was, and while he was certainly scruffy, she had to admit that he was able to pull the look off fairly well. And then there was that _accent_… Yes, she kicked herself for even thinking it, but Crane really was quite dashing. The only things working against him were his tattered garments.

When they did enter the club, he was met with mixed responses.

"Look at him," she overheard a blonde girl tell her redheaded friend as they walked by. Abbie swore they were barely of legal drinking age, and so she couldn't help but bristle.

"Ew, him?" the other girl muttered.

"Yeah, I mean he's got the whole thrift shop thing going on," she defended.

"I guess he's okay, if you're into that."

Though Ichabod hadn't the faintest clue that he was the center of the discussion, Abbie cleared her throat loudly to indicate that their conversation was not as private as they thought, and glared at them for good measure. They apparently took this to mean that she was his girlfriend, at which point they shut up entirely and went red in the face. Abbie wanted to cover her own face with her hands – they were practically _children_.

Ichabod cast her an amused, sidelong glance. "Still convinced that this was a good idea?" he baited.

"I need a drink," she deadpanned, making a beeline for the bar. "A rum and coke, please," she told the bartender. "What do you want?" she asked Crane.

"A scotch, please," he requested earnestly.

"Classy," she remarked.

He raised an eyebrow at her comment, as he often did, but did not say anything. The pair was soon handed their drinks and, as Abbie paid, the bartender shot Ichabod a disapproving glance.

"That was an inordinate sum," Crane said dryly, meeting the other man's frown with one of his own.

"Yeah," Abbie confirmed, agreeing with his monetary grievances for what seemed like the first time. "Drinks are always overpriced at places like this." She did not appear particularly bothered, though, and took a long gulp of her rum and coke.

When he took a sip of his scotch, he looked taken aback.

"What?" she asked.

"This is terribly watered down," he complained.

"It's 'cause of the ice. You should have asked for it neat."

"Indeed."

When they turned around, Ichabod was able to really observe the scenery for the first time. He tried not to let his features betray his astonishment – really, he did – but he felt as if he had been spontaneously transported to Sodom and Gomorrah.

"Jesus. Christ," he muttered.

"Hey, you probably shouldn't say stuff like that," Abbie reminded him with a sly smirk.

"What in the hell – what?" He was actually at a loss for words.

"It's called dancing."

"Dancing? _Dancing_?!" He was flailing, now, which was incredibly funny because it was so out of character and he was much too lanky to be swinging his arms around – the chances of him hitting someone in the face were distressingly high.

"Yeah, probably a little different than what you're used to," she acknowledged as they watched the numerous couples grinding, "but that's how most people dance nowadays."

"Oh, we had a word for _that_ in my day," he snapped wryly, "and it was called fornication."

Abbie looked gleefully scandalized by his use of the word 'fornicate,' and said, "Sheesh, Crane, I think this is as profane as I've ever head you. But hey it's not _that_ bad, they're wearing clothes."

"Hardly. And have people become so base that they do not even wish to see the face of the person with whom they are engaging in such an intimate act?"

She shrugged. "The majority of them _are_ strangers," she reasoned.

Instead of verbally replying, he downed the remainder of his drink with both alarming and impressive speed.

With a conspiratorial smile, Abbie turned to order them another round of drinks. As her back was to him, the redhead from earlier crept over to a traumatized-looking Ichabod.

"Hi, I'm Amanda," she introduced chirpily.

Ichabod nearly staggered backwards in surprise when he realized that she was talking to him – she was beautiful and, in the dim light, looked uncannily similar to Katrina. Her American accent and decidedly skimpy turquoise dress, though, tethered him to the 21st century.

"Hello, my name is Ichabod Crane," he replied.

As soon as the words crossed his lips, she looked pleasantly surprised. "You're British," she noted brightly, with ill-concealed awe.

"I haven't identified as such in a long while, but yes, I suppose you are right," he said with a polite albeit forced, tight-lipped smile. He could practically see her swoon as he uttered his reply, and it was quickly becoming apparent that disposition-wise, this woman was nothing like his Katrina. _Amanda_ seemed rather dim.

"So, um, do you want to dance?"

Ichabod hesitated, and Abbie – who had been silently eavesdropping the entire time – decided it was time to intervene. She saved Crane the awkwardness of responding by turning around and bluntly saying, "Run along, sweetie, he's with me." She gave the girl her best _don't-fuck-with-my-boyfriend _face – which, admittedly, was a bit rusty – and placed a hand firmly on her hip.

Crane smiled again apologetically as the girl, crestfallen, rejoined her blonde friend. "Thank you for rescuing me from that potentially disastrous encounter, Lieutenant," he told Abbie sincerely.

"Don't mention it. She was way too young for you, anyway."

His eyes twinkled with amusement at her seemingly protective attitude and he replied, "Seeing as I was born in the mid-1700s, I would venture to say that _everyone_ is too young for me."

"You know what I mean," she insisted. "It's not like it was in your time, what with thirty year old men marrying sixteen year old girls. That's not legal anymore, and even with parental consent it's highly frowned upon."

"I assure you," he said, mildly offended, "that my wife and I were nearly the same age when we were betrothed… But your point is well taken."

"Ah yes, your _wife_," Abbie said – Ichabod couldn't be certain, but it seemed… It seemed almost as if her tone held bitterness in it.

She didn't know what she was saying. She was three rum and cokes in, and things seemed to be taking a nasty turn as her mind swirled with thoughts of Ichabod. They really were horribly inappropriate thoughts, thoughts that she definitely should not have been having about a_ married man_. Married. Wife. He was someone's _husband_.

However, Abbie was saved (or was it damned?) from saying anything even more controversial as someone called her name from across the bar.

It was Luke.

"God help me," she murmured, drowning the words in the rest of her drink.

From the way he swaggered over to them, she could tell that he had had more than a couple drinks himself.

"I see your shadow follows you even when you're off the clock," he sneered at her.

Ichabod was giving her ex-boyfriend the most odious glare she had ever seen in her life. _If looks could kill… _she thought to herself. But his scowl was not uncontested, as Luke looked equally displeased to see him.

"I didn't really think this was your scene, Luke," she said in a halfhearted attempt to be civil.

"I could say the same for you."

"Are you here alone?"

"No," he said defensively, "Devon is here with me." He nodded his head towards the dance floor, and sure enough their blonde colleague was gyrating with some girl.

There was an awkward, tense silence. "So, d'you wanna dance?" Luke slurred eventually, revealing himself to be more intoxicated than Abbie had initially thought. Ichabod's eyes narrowed to daggers as he discreetly watched the other man grab his Lieutenant's wrist.

"No," she started, delicately trying to tug herself out of his grasp, "I don't think so."

"C'mon," he insisted. "For old time's sake."

"No, I really don't think it's a good idea," she said more forcefully, wrenching her hand away when he didn't release her on his own accord. Crane straightened, readying himself to step in – this did not escape Morales' notice.

"So there _is_ something goin' on between you two," he accused.

"Me saying no has nothing to do with Crane," Abbie explained calmly, trying to avoid a conflict. "It has to do with us. We're done, Luke. You have to let it go." She turned to Ichabod and said, "Let's get out of here, Crane."

Casting Morales the smuggest look possible, he clasped his hands behind his back and purred, "I thought you'd never ask."

Luke was left standing at the bar alone, and he could have _sworn _that Crane had winked at him as he and Abbie left. No matter how ardently the two of them claimed that there were no feelings between them, he wasn't buying it.

* * *

**Author's Note: I hope you all liked it! I'm not sure exactly how small Sleepy Hollow is supposed to be, but the population sign from the first episode said there were like 144,000 people or something, which is pretty large. So I figured they'd have at least one nightclub. Let me know what you think :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Thank you so so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! One of the reviewers, Redmage2, asked how they were going to get home after the last chapter, and hence this continuation was born! The latter part of the chapter is completely unrelated and is set after the last episode (Sin Eater). **

* * *

When they left the club, Abbie was in a drunken flurry. Despite the fact that she was a solid foot shorter than Crane (which meant, usually, that she had to walk three-times as fast to keep up with him) and in heels, he was the one struggling to match her pace.

"Miss Mills, what on earth is the hurry?" he inquired as they filtered onto the darkened street. As they grew further from the nightclub, the quieter their surroundings became.

"I need some air," she answered tightly, without breaking her stride.

"Is your encounter with Detective Morales what has you in such a tizzy?" he asked innocently enough, although he already knew the answer.

"I don't want to talk about it," she grumbled. Her annunciation wasn't as clear as it typically was, no doubt a result of the alcohol she'd consumed. Crane wasn't immune to its effects, either, but he – unsurprisingly – had a far higher tolerance than she did.

"Where, pray tell, are we going?" he pressed as she continued to walk away from him, shoes click-clacking boisterously against the concrete.

"I don't know. Away. I can't drive right now, so I've gotta walk it off."

"Perhaps I might use your vehicle," he suggested mildly. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged out of his grasp as if his presence repulsed her.

In fact, though, it did not repulse her – quite the opposite. Which was why she was trying so obstinately to get away from him. With rum coursing through her bloodstream, she was afraid of what she might do if she was forced to interact directly with her lanky British companion.

Crane, startled by the strong reaction his touch evoked, rooted his feet firmly on the ground and refused to budge another inch. It wounded him to think that she would shirk away from so simple a gesture. "Miss Mills," he called ahead, his voice echoing as it bounced off the walls of the deserted town, "is everything quite all right?"

She stopped and spun around to face him, her vision whirling even once her body was stationary. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to stop the words that were clawing at the inside of her throat. No, everything was not all right. Not at all. She was having _feelings_ for him, for her partner, for the one person she could count on, and if she told him she would ruin everything and then she would be _all alone_ again. She'd been down the mixing-business-and-pleasure road before, and tonight was just another reminder of how messy it made everything. Oh yeah – _and_ he was married. So no, everything was pretty fucked up at the moment.

"Everything is fine," she lied through her teeth.

He stepped closer, noticing the dramatic change in her countenance, and tenderly gripped her shoulders. This time, she did not try to escape, but instead resigned herself to simply evading making eye contact. "No," he said softly, with genuine worry lacing every syllable, "everything is most certainly not 'fine.' Why has our interaction with Mr. Morales upset you so? Do you still harbor affection for him?"

She nearly scoffed, but saved herself. "No, that's not it. Just forget it, it's nothing. It's stupid."

He released her and smiled reassuringly. "Abigail, I am quite confident that none of your concerns could ever be categorized as 'stupid.' Please, tell me what troubles you. Perhaps I can help."

At this, she actually did scoff. "You _definitely_ cannot help."

Ichabod's brow furrowed in increased bewilderment and he cocked his head slightly. "I'm afraid I do not catch your meaning."

The alcohol won out. "It's _you_, Crane!" she burst, throwing her arms up in wild indignation. "It's you!"

He staggered backwards, now equal parts perplexed, concerned, and apologetic. "I am deeply sorry," he started with a stammer, "if-if I have done anything at all to cause you dismay! But I am afraid I still do not follow…"

She laughed cheerlessly and said, "I can't explain. You haven't done anything and you've done everything all at the same time."

"I must insist that you're not making much sense, Miss Mills…" His eyes searched hers intently, but she was proving to be a puzzle that even his brilliant mind could not piece together.

Now, it was her turn to step closer to him. "Don't you see? Couldn't you tell? Didn't you notice something different tonight?" she bombarded.

He looked up, as if he were searching his own mind for the answer. The way she was gazing at him and the frustration in her tone gave him a hint, planted the answer deep in his subconscious, but he refused to acknowledge it. "You are certain this has nothing to do with Detective Morales," he asserted cautiously.

She simply shook her head in silent refutation.

He eyed her fearfully, like a cornered animal, as if he knew the reason but was loath to believe even the unspoken notion. Eventually, his demeanor changed entirely and he shrugged, sighed exasperatedly, and said, "Then I cannot even begin to comprehend the source of your agitation."

She backed away from him in defeat and said, "Forget it."

However, as she turned to begin walking, his hand found itself at her wrist and he tugged her back quickly, so that they were nearly flush against one another in their proximity. They were both taken by surprise, as if they hadn't realized this could possibly be the outcome of his actions. Abbie's chest heaved perceptibly beneath the scant spandex of her dress and Ichabod tried actively not to notice it. There seemed to be a tangible, unbreakable line linking his gaze to hers. Neither dared to look away.

"What are you doing?" she murmured, her voice sounding foreign to her own ears.

"I-I don't know. I did not mean – " He moved to step back, but Abbie's hands caught the sleeves of his tattered coat.

"Don't," she breathed.

"Abbie, I…" The sentence died as it left his tongue because he didn't know what else to say, and he certainly didn't know what was going on. And the whisky, which had previously been dormant, seemed to be hitting him all at once. Or maybe it wasn't the whisky; maybe it was something completely different. Maybe it was her deep, chocolate eyes boring into his. Maybe it was her full, parted lips allowing little gasps of breath to escape between them.

Maybe it was all of these things, and it was definitely that the way she looked at him filled him dangerous hope.

"It's just so frustrating," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

"What is?" He didn't dare take her words at anything other than face value. He couldn't allow himself the agony of false interpretations – there was no room for uncertainty here.

"Hearing them, what they say about us, even though it's not even true."

Broken from his trance and believing himself to have mistaken her meaning, he started to step away again; but she held him still.

"When I _want_ it to be true," she continued. "I get all of this backlash without any of the perks." She let out a melancholic chuckle and let her grip on the wool of his coat slip as she too roused from her daze.

He ghosted his hands over her elbows to stop her from drawing away, prolonging this never-ending game of tug of war. His fingertips on her bare arms caused a spark of electricity to shoot through their sensitive nerve endings and the flesh on Abbie's arms formed goosebumps, the effect of this rare, skin-to-skin contact heightened even more so by their circumstances and slight inebriation. His face grew closer to hers, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her forehead.

Her eyes fluttering shut, she reminded him, "You're married."

He pulled his head back, but did not rob her of the heat generated by the closeness of their figures. "Ah," he breathed, "so this is what you meant by your comment earlier this evening."

"Yeah, and it's _true._" She could not disguise the rich pain in her voice.

His features darkened as he said, "Katrina is dead, Abigail. She has been for nearly three centuries."

"But didn't you say," she started to protest, "didn't you say that you see her in dreams? That we might be able to rescue her from… wherever she is?"

He shook his head grimly, still very morose. "She is lost," he managed. There was something in is tone, something Abbie couldn't quite place – it almost resembled shame, as if he were carrying some sort of burden.

"But you see her still, don't you?" she prodded.

"Yes, I see her in dreams, sometimes," he replied cryptically. "But I see her less and less as time goes on. Now, she is often replaced by someone else."

He locked eyes with her pointedly, willing her to understand. He was consumed by the awful knowledge of how wrong this was, how he was not supposed to feel this way about Miss Mills, his partner, and how his thoughts were wholly unfaithful. But he could not deny that she too came to him at night, in his dreams, and that her interactions with him were decidedly different than Katrina's in exactly the way they shouldn't have been. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was not going to retrieve his wife from the afterlife, but he was still confronted with the horrible reality that he had hardly mourned her before his thoughts had traveled to Abbie. The hold she had on him – and had had on him for some time – was both undeniable and inescapable.

She tried halfheartedly to squirm out of his grasp and said, "Let's go, Crane, before we do something we can't take back."

When the contact between them had almost been completely severed, he wound his hands around her wrists, pulled her against him, and pressed his lips to hers in a searing kiss. She hardly knew what was happening before she found her fingers knotted in his long, tawny hair and felt his hands clutch her face desperately, pulling her impossibly nearer. And though her eyes were shut, she was a bit drunk, and she could really only _feel_ what was going on, she experienced an overwhelming sense of clarity. All of the emotions that had been lying hazardously, just beneath the surface were coming to light and pouring themselves into the kiss.

No one had ever kissed her the way Ichabod kissed her just then, with such need and sincerity. It was an end in itself, not a way to get into her pants or the product of some similarly lecherous motivation. It was just a kiss, and yet it was so much more. It was a confirmation, a dangerous acknowledgement of their fated attachment to one another. Maybe this had been meant to happen all along, but maybe they had horribly misconstrued the intention of their alliance. He wagered they were breaking more than one of the Commandments in that moment, but somehow he couldn't imagine that there was any other outcome of their partnership than the one they found themselves in.

His beard tickled her lips as his tongue tangled with hers in a sort of dance, rather than a fight for dominance. Unfortunately, their height difference did not permit them an ideal angle for this sort of thing, so, without breaking the kiss, he hoisted her up. Her legs unthinkingly snaked around his waist and her arms propped her above him. It felt so perfect, so cinematic, that Abbie wanted to cry. She was exposed to him, her feelings betraying her unwanted vulnerability. She trusted him and yet she did not trust the universe to not crush her hopes, as it always seemed to do. She knew the perils of allowing herself to feel such raw happiness.

Eventually, he set her down and they broke apart, each breathing raggedly. Crane said, "Is that what you meant by something we can't take back?"

Abbie gulped heavily, still quite rattled, and replied, "Yeah."

He kissed her again, this time more of a brushing of lips, and when he pulled back he said, "I should never wish to take this back."

Despite herself, she grinned broadly and allowed him to wind his arm around her waist while he wore a cheeky smirk. And together they walked, arms entwined, down the road and into the night. It was still an hour or so before she was sober enough to drive back, but the pair of them found marvelous ways to occupy their time.

.

**POST-SIN EATER**

Abbie thought, perhaps, that she hadn't realized how truly important Crane was to her until now. It wasn't that she had just realized she was growing fond of him, or even that she had just realized she needed his help. No, it was more than that, and it was something entirely different – what she felt for Crane… It wasn't just amicability or necessity. It was something deeper, something stronger.

When the Sin Eater had said that he might be able to use her as a connection to find him, there had been no hesitation. She knew, she was _positive_ that the connection would be strong enough.

Because she had never felt anything so strong before, not in her entire life. Not with any member of her family, not with any of her ex-boyfriends, and not even with Corbin. It took Lieutenant Abigail Mills quite a while to allow herself to trust someone, but Crane had thrown all these warranted, preliminary misgivings out the proverbial window. She had blind, unwavering faith in him, and she didn't even know how or why.

And when she found him, he had been so ready to die – so ready to sacrifice himself for their noble cause – that it made her angry.

"How can you be so _calm_about this?" she demanded, furious and desperate tears clouding her vision. She felt her heart sinking, falling within her and breaking all at once.

He smiled, a sad little curling of the corners of his lips, and confessed, "I'm terrified."

She wanted to break right then and there, allow the tears to pour from her eyes and the sobs to wrack her body. But she did not. Instead, she clutched his hand tighter in hers as he gently brushed his thumb across her knuckles. This motion, small though it was, was more physical contact than they had ever engaged in.

"You don't have to do this." The words – her plea – hung in the dusty basement air. And for a moment, she didn't care – she didn't care about the greater good, she didn't care that the rise of the Horseman would lead to many, many more deaths and the eventual apocalypse. She just cared about Crane remaining alive and, most importantly, remaining by her side. The rest of the world be damned.

"I do."

"No," she choked. He had said it himself, _he had said it_. They found each other – across the impossibility of it all, across centuries, _they found each other_. He couldn't just throw that away. She wouldn't allow him to.

"Perhaps it might be easier if you leave," he murmured, unable to meet her eyes. Easier for who? Easier for him. True enough, he didn't want her to – he didn't want to be alone. In his final moments, she was all that he could think about. But he also couldn't bear to see the pain he was inflicting upon her.

She shook her head defiantly – she would never leave him, never abandon him like he was abandoning her. If he could so cruelly make this decision, he would have to see what it did to her.

When he swallowed the poison, reality set in. Deep down, she hadn't thought he would actually do it. Now that she was confronted with the empty vial and Crane's trembling form, her chest constricted and the tears flowed freely.

"I'm so sorry," was all he said, his eyes glimmering with unspoken emotion and the haze of his impending demise.

But she didn't want an apology, she wanted him _alive_! She wanted him to stay with her, to fight with her through these seven horrible years. She would never survive without him.

It was unbelievable to think that her heart held such potent affection for someone she barely knew – and yet the sentiment was too overpowering to deny.

When the Sin Eater arrived just a second later, she swore it was an act of divine providence. Her prayers had been answered.

The moments when she was on the other side of the door were unbearable. Her mind swam with doubts and fears and _what if it was already too late_. She couldn't see what was going on, she couldn't be with him. Jenny gave her a guarded, vaguely-worried stare, but she was too preoccupied to notice. Even her estranged sister was startled by the intensity of her feelings for this odd, mysterious man from another era, and justifiably so.

She hugged him when she returned, forcefully and without preamble. He gripped her with equal fervor, banishing any qualms about decorum or propriety – there was only unbridled relief as he laced his fingers behind her back. They clung to one another as though their lives depended on it, as though she were the only thing anchoring him to this earth. He allowed himself to rest his head atop hers and briefly close his eyes, letting this long-lost feeling of human intimacy to permeate his tired bones. He felt so alone, so isolated in this world, that he had nearly forgotten the wonderful feeling of being close to another person.

"Next time listen to me, okay? I can't go through that again," she ordered him, pulling back bashfully.

He wanted to grab her again, to assure her that there was no need to be embarrassed, and to express just how deeply his affection for her ran. But instead he exchanged witty – albeit heartfelt – banter with her, and promised to always listen.

They walked out with their arms around each other, giddy despite the fact that the Horseman's return was imminent. Because they could ignore it, for now. They could allow themselves a moment's happiness because their bond remained unbroken, and somehow that seemed to be the most important thing.

* * *

**Author's note: For those of you who where hoping for Crane to get a driving lesson, I'm deeply sorry. Another time, perhaps. I hope you all liked it, regardless. Please review! Your feedback is invaluable! As for the smutty one-shot... ugh I'm just so indecisive! I promise I will try to make up my mind soon.**


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